


Addled Mind

by DuelCast



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Confessions, Cousin Incest, Euphemisms, Incest, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Period-Typical Homophobia, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuelCast/pseuds/DuelCast
Summary: The hour grows late, he whispered as he tugged at Benvolio's sleeve, and while he was not wrong, he could usually be convinced to set his good sense aside long enough for a drink or two.
Relationships: Benvolio/Romeo Montague
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: RelationShipping 2020





	Addled Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



Sounds of laughter echoed in the banquet hall, and old friends exchanged fresh gossip with one another while the other guests danced and drank and made merry. Though midnight has passed them by, there was yet much fun to be had. So why, oh why, was Romeo dragging him away to some gloomy, darkened hall? _The hour grows late_ , he whispered as he tugged at Benvolio's sleeve, and while he was not wrong, he could usually be convinced to set his good sense aside long enough for a drink or two (provided he had something to drink to). Benvolio frowned as he considered what might have dimmed his cousin's festive mood, and finding nothing, followed after him; by the time he caught up to Romeo outside the banquet hall, his smile was put on as expertly as any other mask.

“I thought you one of Verona’s brave sons,” he says, teasing, ”yet you play the part of a wizened nurse.”

Normally these jests were the purview of Mercutio, with his tongue as sharp and ready as his blade, but if Romeo finds his act strange he does not show it. Instead he simply grins back at him and, his eyes twinkling, says, “No nurse am I, but I am oft called wise.”

“Called wise! Is that the name I should call thee?” Benvolio peers at him, and continues, “For I cannot call thee Romeo, o’ wise man. Sweet Romeo may spurn an evening’s delights, but only when the sun still yet shines bright. Shall I call thee old Socrates, instead?”

Romeo shakes, stifling his laughter as he guides his friend to some hidden corner, untouched by servants and guests alike. With a tear in his eye, he says, “Nay, Socrates shall never be my name. I’ve no desire for a cup of hemlock – not whilst we still have a store of sweet wine.” 

Ah, the boy speaks of sweet wine, yet drags them further from where the wine flows freely. Benvolio has long grown used to his cousin’s fickle moods, but tonight his heart seems strange, even to him. He had suspected some grave and sudden melancholy had pushed him from the crowd, but his spirits are as high as ever, so why...

Surrendering to his confusion, Benvolio sighs, "What we have is a store of sweet nonsense. Was the feast too bitter?”

“Nay, nor is any peach destined to rot.”

Such dark words, spoken in such a bright voice! Benvolio furrows his brow, and, no longer content to follow behind, he quickens his pace until finds himself at Romeo’s side. With a hand placed against his shoulder, he guides him gently so he may look him in the eye.

“Again, more riddles! Pray, dear coz, speak plain.”

Romeo startles, though whether it be from Benvolio's touch or his befuddlement, he cannot say. Soon the boy's smile falters, not disappearing, but fading into something as soft and mournful as a funeral veil.

“Speak plain I shall, though it shan’t be pleasant," he says, shaking his head. "‘Twas the threat of quarrels that turned the night sour.”

A quarrel? Benvolio tilts his head, before his eyes light up in remembrance at some foul word uttered on the dance floor. He releases his grip on Romeo’s shoulder, laughing a bit as he shakes his head.

“’Twas a quarrel you feared? Dear Romeo! Dost thou think me fool enough to draw steel?”

“Nay, I’ve no fear of steel, Benvolio.”

“If you have no fear, then tell me, my friend: what moves thy good heart? What moves thy swift feet?”

“’Tis kindness, Benvolio, and a fool’s hope. I...” 

Romeo falters for a moment, his words catching in his throat, but his hesitation lasts for but a moment. His courage returns as quickly as it ever does, and he squares his shoulders as he looks up at Benvolio, refusing to break his gaze.

“Long have I wished to soothe thy furious moods,” he says, standing tall, his voice quiet but no weaker for it. “Whilst thou may not quarrel like others, quarrel you do. But please, do not take me for a craven - I shall be glad to raise my blade with yours. And glad...”

Romeo takes a step closer, close enough to take Benvolio by the hand and bring it to his lips, kneeling before him in gentle supplication. Now on his knees, he kisses his ring not once, but twice: once for the oath he swore, and again for an oath he has yet to promise. 

“Glad to raise my blade against yours, as well. Glad shall I be to grant all this, and more - my hand, my lips, my sword - it is all yours.”

Benvolio finds himself frozen in place, staring down in a daze, quiet and still as warmth rises from his neck to his cheeks. The silence between them threatens to stretch from a moment to an eternity – that is, until Romeo presses his lips to his hand once more, to seal that final oath with a final kiss. Benvolio tugs his hand away before his lips can do more than brush against his flesh, and he laughs again, his voice stilted and holding none of the gentle mirth he had but a moment ago. But laugh he must, for certainly this is no more than a jest; it can never be more than a jest. When Benvolio looks down upon Romeo, though, his heart sinks to his stomach as he realizes that he is the only one who has found any humor in this. Still on his knees, he stares up at him, his face pale and wan and his lips trembling, the brave smile now gone from his face. Benvolio lifts his hand to reach out to him, before he thinks better of it, and gestures to himself instead. 

“Gaze upon me,” he says, with just the barest crack in his voice. ”See I have nothing to give. I’ve no rapier, no dagger, no gleaming sword. I’ve naught to offer even to scoundrels, much less a man of-”

Romeo interrupts, not with a word but with a touch, and clasps his hand around Benvolio’s once more. This time he brings it not to his lips but to his cheek, and in a final fit of daring he presses against his palm so Benvolio may feel his warmth.

“I see now the wisdom in your escape,” Benvolio sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as a shudder runs down his spine. “You’ve drunk too much of that Florentine wine.”

Romeo furrows his brow, and says, “Benvolio, I barely finished my first cup.”

“Aye, and one cup is one cup too many.”

He speaks of too much wine, but what does that mean for him, a dullard too slow-witted to move his hand? Too dim to move away entirely, before he damns them both? Benvolio breathes out, snapping his eyes open at the sound of footsteps. They twist their heads in unison, Benvolio nearly toppling over Romeo's shoulders, sending the boy sprawling against the floor as he catches himself against the wall. With Benvolio peering over his shoulder and Romeo splayed between his legs, they both gaze upon the old servant now gawking at them. He squints his eyes and raises his candle up to see them better, only to scoff and shake his head.

“Hmph! You lads think yourselves so clever, but ‘tis plain what you’ve been up to tonight.”

Benvolio’s chest tightens, but before they can get a word out, the old man continues, “Drinking! Carousing! _Mischief!_ Ah, to be young again, to be young again… ah, you best get yourselves to bed, and sleep that drink off...”

The old man shakes his head as he toddles off, and Benvolio’s heart pounds against his ribs with all the fervor of a prisoner raging against his cell, refusing to calm until the servant is vanished from his sight. He takes a deep breath, then another, and looks down upon Romeo

“Come, Romeo,” he whispers, kneeling down to take him by the hand. “Come now, and take your rest. All will seem bright when dawn rises once more, when sobriety hath returned to thee.”

Romeo says nothing as he takes his hand, but instead of rising to his feet he leans against him, his head hung low against Benvolio's shoulder. He remains like that for a moment, sullen and limp, until Benvolio brushes a gentle finger against his chin.

“My heart is a sober thing already,” he sighs, saying nothing more as they both stand upright and begin their slow march towards the gates of the manor, towards the streets that shall lead them back home.


End file.
